POODLE ATTACK

...Later that day we took Harry to the park, but he refused to
run around, and just sat there like a pudding.

So I swept him up, carried him to the end of the park, and
released him with a great shove. He shed his puddingness and
departed like a shot, his wooly mops of ears flying up and down,
and he shrank to a tiny black spot in the distance. When his
little red tongue appeared at his mouth, I stopped the game.

As we were leaving, a venerable Chelsea pensioner, getting ready
to take a turn of the grounds in an electric wheelchair, gave a
sort of salute.

His serene expression, the placid set of his head, his languid
pace, all foretold his coming pleasure.

To my horror, Harry bounded after him, barking and tearing at his
scarlet coat, which fluttered temptingly in the wind.

--Harry! Harry!

Crap! He would not come back! My face burned, my bowels shot
through with dread and I felt impotent in the face of disaster.

The old man roared and beat the dog with his cap. His hairless
head, formerly white as an egg, flushed to an angry red; his
face--which shook with each mighty stroke--turned the colour of a
ripe strawberry. His screams roused the dog to bloodlust, so that
he redoubled his attack, and tore off a great chunk of the man's
scarlet coat.

The man took a drunken course, lurching violently, like a
storm-tossed ship. The chair, which often rose up on a single
wheel, then back on two, then up again, to avoid the dog, nearly
toppled over. What if he fell? I almost died!

The man fumbled with his chair, which righted itself, and sped
away at great speed. We gathered what remained of our dignity and
ran out of the park. The dog, dragging his trophy, led our hasty
retreat.